“That you love me! Don’t deny it! You can’t, for it’s true! Gloriously true! Oh, my darling, how beautiful you are!”
“Mr. Farrish! Oh, don’t!” for Guy had clasped her wildly to him.
“There, there, my beauty! You know you want me to love you! Why resist, my fluttering bird?”
“Don’t kiss me! Don’t you dare! No one shall ever kiss me but the man I marry!”
“And you’re going to marry me! You are!”
“Mr. Farrish, you must be crazy!” and Eileen disengaged herself from his embrace. “Why, I scarcely know you!”
“You scarcely know me in this role, yes. And I scarcely know myself. But it suits me to perfection, and you’ll learn rapidly. Eileen, my beauty-girl, say you will marry me,—soon—soon!”
“I will,” breathed Eileen; “and soon, Guy!”
CHAPTER XXII
Ford’s Theory
A FEW days later, Bingham called again at the Randalls’.
It had been agreed by him and Eileen that they would say nothing of their engagement for a long time; not, at any rate, until the case was cleared up, and the whole affair settled one way or another.
Bingham was in a bad temper. The situation was wearing on him, and the investigations of the Police Detective Bureau were getting annoyingly personal.
“It’s plain to be seen,” he said, “that Somers is drawing the net closer round me. Unless some other suspect is kind enough to put in an appearance pretty soon, I stand a very strong chance of being arrested.”
“Not really, Stan?” said Eileen, looking at him curiously; “how can they arrest you?”
“How can they? Why, because they think they have sufficient evidence, that’s all.”
“How do you know all about it?”
“I don’t know all about it, but I’ve found out enough to know they’re feeling pretty sure.”
“Then they’re a lot of dunder-heads, and they don’t know what they’re talking about! Just you have patience a little longer, and you’ll see who knows the most about this thing, you or I.”
“You are a comfort, Eileen, you’re always so hopeful. But you don’t realize, dearest, that—”
“Oho! I don’t realize, don’t I? Well, I just guess I do! I realize a heap more than you do, you blessed old stupid.”
“I am stupid, I’ll admit. This whole business has simply taken away my brain, and I can’t see what to do next.”
“Don’t do anything. Leave it to those who are wiser than you. Here comes one now. Mr. Ford, what do you think? Mr. Bingham says he doesn’t know what to do!”
“Neither do I,” and Ford looked quizzical. “Those misguided wiseacres in the Police Office are thwarting all my efforts, and I am put to it to keep my plans secret from them, lest they upset them all.”
“Do you know, Mr. Ford, I think it would be a good idea if Mr. Bingham went away for a time.”
“Run away!” exclaimed Bingham. “I’d be likely to do that!”
“Not exactly run away, but go off for a little rest,” and Eileen smiled at him.
Bingham looked at her grimly. “I expect Somers would have something to say about that. No, my dear, I don’t think I’ll go away for a rest, just at present. In fact, I don’t think I’ll go until I can take you with me.”
“I don’t know when that will be, Mr. Bingham,” and Ford spoke earnestly; “I advise you to stay here, but I also advise you not to say much. The police are on a new tack, and I don’t quite know what they’re up to. But I do know if they can twist or convert your speeches to serve their own ends, they are quite ready to do so. They’re working on that ‘Caprice’ story just now, and they’re getting a lot out of it They repudiate the work that I’ve done; they’ve no use for my deductions and conclusions, so I’m working on my own; and if I get the truth before they do, and I fully expect to, they will fight hard before they own themselves beaten.”
“What is the truth, Mr. Ford?”
“That Guy Farrish shot the bride at the altar.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Principally because I can think of no reason why he should do it. Farrish has not been friendly with Ethel for more than a year, not since Ethel and I—became engaged. Whatever feelings he once entertained for her, must have become more or less effaced in that time. He could hardly have been still so desperately in love with her as to prefer seeing her dead rather than wedded to me.”
“Those are the arguments of the police, and they throw suspicion, in their opinion, back on yourself.”
“Never mind about me, now; stick to the question of Guy Farrish. Could he have any other motive than jealousy?”
“What makes you ask that question, Mr. Bingham?” and Ford looked at him, keenly.
“Because if he did the deed, it was not through jealousy or envy of me. It was for some other reason, connected with—”
“Yes, connected with—”
“With business matters. But they are subjects I do not feel myself at liberty to mention.”
“Not to save yourself from suspicion.”
“No. Guy Farrish is not officially suspected of this crime. Unless he were, I should not be justified in telling of these things. I should not have referred to them, but that I thought possibly they might already be in your mind.”
“Now, look here, Mr. Bingham,” and Ford spoke very seriously; “I am sure of Guy Farrish’s guilt. Sure, I tell you. But he is a clever and deep scoundrel, and it is going to be very hard, if not impossible, to prove his guilt. Therefore, if you can help in any way, it is your duty to do so.”
“Why are you so sure of his guilt?”
“First and perhaps, principally, because he tried so hard to turn suspicion toward you.”
“Toward me!”
“Yes; that was part of his cleverness. While apparently turning suspicion from you, he really started it in your direction. That cipher business, for instance; he changed it, he said, lest it incriminate you; whereas, it was his changed rendition of the thing that made it look like your work.”
Bingham listened attentively. Eileen had left the room a short time before and the two men were alone.
“Those two telegrams, too, that came on the morning of the wedding, you remember, they had to be read alternately. They, too, were Farrish’s work. All these things were warnings to the girl that if she married you he would kill her. She, I dare say, did not believe he would carry out the threat, but she was in a daze of terror all the time. I have learned from the bridesmaids how agitated and nervous she was even before the ceremony, and the minister and her uncle testify to her extreme panic of fear during the ceremony. When she looked up toward the pastor, as he says, it was really Farrish she was looking at. He held the pistol; he fired it, as she turned toward the other aisle; and this is proved by the powder-burn on the sheet of music that bears his finger prints.”
“All very well as a theory, Mr. Ford,” and Bingham smiled a little. “And, honestly, I wish I could believe it. But it is all so imaginary, so fanciful, that I cannot seem to think it the truth. As I say, I wish I could, for though I should hate to see Farrish found guilty, I should certainly like to have the weight of suspicion removed from my shoulders. Sometimes I think it is a judgment on me, for the wrong I did to Ethel to marry her when I loved another, or, rather, to love another while I was betrothed to her.”
“I wouldn’t bother about that phase of it. You certainly acted the part of an honourable man.”
“That, of course, so far as I could. And it is in pursuance of an honourable course of action that I must refuse to give any hint of any reason Guy Farrish might have had for objecting to my marriage with Ethel, aside from jealousy.”
“Very well, Mr. Bingham, but I warn you I shall use every possible means to find that out, and I have not the slightest doubt that I shall succeed.”
“Very well, but it won’t be by my information.”
Bingham went away, and For
d chuckled to himself. “Glad he told me that much,” he mused; “now I know there is a reason. I was sure there must be; but now that I’m certain, I can go to work to ferret it out.”
Glancing from the window, just then, he saw Eileen getting into Guy Farrish’s smart little runabout car, while that worthy gentleman solicitously looked after her comfort in the matter of robes and cushions. Then he got in himself and they spun away, the girl laughing up in the face of the handsome lawyer.
“Lucky Bingham got off before he saw that,” thought Ford. “Great girl, Eileen!”
A great girl, indeed, Eileen Randall looked, in her smart motor garb. A coat of white pongee silk, and a hat that was mostly veil,—of shimmering, shaded green. Through the tissue veil her eyes danced as she looked up at Farrish.
“Which way?” he asked, looking admiringly at her, “and do put back that veil! Why do you always tantalize me with a veil?”
“What, spoil my complexion! No, indeed!” and Eileen laughed her gay little laugh, that was provocation itself. “Which way shall we go? How about some nice little wayside inn, where we can get iced tea and iced cakes?”
“To the Colonial then; that’s the best tea place.”
“No,” and Eileen laid her hand on the steering wheel, “no, let’s go to Flora Wood.”
“Of all places! Why Flora Wood?”
“Because I say so!” and the red lips pouted saucily. “Do I get my way?”
“Your word is my law, always. But I shall exact a reward. You are to stay there to dinner, too, and we’ll come home by moonlight.”
“I’m not sure about that, we’ll see. And, Mr. Farrish—”
“Mr. Farrish, is it? Don’t forget, young lady, you’ve promised to marry me, and I prefer a less formal address.”
“Oh, I didn’t promise to marry you, did I?”
“You sure did! And I shall hold you to it”
“But I didn’t really mean it, you know. I was—”
“Well, sweetheart, you were what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,—I was a little infatuated by your—your nearness, I suppose.”
“Then that’s an infatuation that has come to stay! I shall always be near you, my beloved; I am near you now.” Farrish’s face was close to Eileen’s and his eyes looked deep into her own.
“Don’t,—Guy—” and Eileen dropped her eyes. “Let’s talk of something else,” she went on, nervously fingering the dust-robe. But she gave him an oblique glance more eloquent than words could be.
“Siren!” he exclaimed; “that’s the only name for you! You are adorable! When will you marry me? When, Eileen?”
“Oh, not for a long time. Tell me, Guy, have you ever loved any one before?”
“Not as I love you! I have had love-affairs,—who hasn’t? But this is the love of my life, my hope for the future,—Eileen, you don’t know what you are to me! I adore you! I can’t keep my hands off of you, and yet I worship you and I reverence you. My only love!”
“But you loved Ethel.”
“Ethel! That was a momentary infatuation. Ethel was a coquette, and at one time it pleased her to coquet with me. I humoured her, and—but don’t let’s talk of Ethel.”
“Yes, I want to. Do you suppose they’ll arrest Stanford Bingham?”
“Probably. But they’ll never convict him. There isn’t enough evidence.”
“But that Caprice woman is an eye-witness, so they say.”
“But that isn’t enough. Her unsupported testimony won’t hang Bingham. Unless he confesses, he’ll get off.”
“Confesses! Why, he didn’t do it!”
“Then who did?”
“Who indeed! Tell me whom you suspect.”
“If I do, will you kiss me?”
“What, now?”
“No, not now, it would be too unsatisfactory. But in the garden at Flora Wood. I know a secluded little nook—”
“Just big enough for one kiss? But how do you come to know so much about Flora Wood?”
“Oh, I’ve been there lots of times. For years it has been the Mecca of afternoon drives.”
“Were you ever there with Ethel?”
“H’m, let me see: Yes, I think I have been. Also with Betty Stratton, and several other pretty girls. But never before with you! And, now, never again with any one but you! Tell me, my siren, when can we be married?”
“Don’t call me siren. It sounds like those wailing motor horns!”
“Then I’ll never call you that again. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up names to call you that you do like. ‘Queen of my future,’—how’s that?”
“Horrid! It seems to imply a Queen of your past!”
“Now you’re teasing me. But you may, if you like. Tease me more.”
“Who was the ‘Queen of your past’? Is there any one, any one at all, who has the slightest claim on you now?”
“Claim on me! How absurd!”
“But is there?”
“No, of course not. Could I ask you to marry me if there were?”
“Well; but—is there any one who thinks she has? Any little actress, or anybody?”
“You little innocent! Do you think every man has some foolish entanglement?”
“Haven’t they?” and Eileen’s big, dark eyes showed a wistful wonder.
“Some men may have, darling; but don’t worry about those. Is there any one in especial you’re thinking of?”
“Yes, Caprice.”
Eileen flung the words at him and looked straight in his face to see how he took it.
Farrish smiled and then looked grave. “Eileen,” he said, gently, “if Caprice is entangled with some one you know, look in another direction; not toward me.”
“You mean,—Stan—”
“Don’t ask me,” returned Farrish, but his eyes assented to her half-spoken question.
“How much farther is it?” asked Eileen, after a brief interval of silence.
“Only a few miles. Just beyond the next turn. Shall you be glad to get there? With me?”
A flash of the brown eyes through the gauze veil was his only answer, but Farrish seemed content.
They reached the inn at Flora Wood, and the whole place justified its attractive name. A good-sized grove of waving shade trees made a background for an acre or more of old-fashioned flower gardens. The house, long and rambling of structure, had wide verandas where were tea tables and pleasant lounging-places.
Farrish selected what seemed the most desirable one and Eileen seated herself, and took off her long veil.
“It was worth waiting for,” Farrish whispered, as she slowly unswathed the long folds and drew them from her head and neck.
Her motor coat, too, she discarded, and sat, looking fresh and lovely, in a summer gown of soft white lace. The frills fell away from her exquisite throat, which, innocent of beads or necklace, gleamed pearly-white in the dusk of the vine-shaded alcove Farrish had chosen.
“How beautiful you are!” he exclaimed, gazing at her.
“It’s rude to stare,” she laughed back at him. “Please order me some iced tea, I’m choked with dust.”
“You shall have anything you want, to the half of my kingdom, and then, if you want it, you shall have the other half.”
“Of course I shall want it. I am not one for half-way measures!”
“Neither am I! And I want you, Eileen, all of you, for my very own. When, dearest, when can I have you?”
“Are we staying here for dinner?” asked Eileen, irrelevantly.
“Indeed we are! I’ll order it directly.”
“Very well, but I shall not see you again until dinner time. I’m going to freshen up, and then I am going to take a rest in that very tempting-looking cool parlour we passed through when we entered. The landlady looks interesting, I may cultivate her acquaintance. At any rate, I dismiss you till dinner time. Shall we say seven?”
CHAPTER XXIII
Only One Way
FARRISH fumed and fretted at the dismi
ssal, but Eileen was obdurate. His only consolation was her gentle though mocking smile and her promise of rejoining him at seven. It was already six, and he killed the time as far as possible in ordering dinner, and strolling round the garden, smoking and selecting the best spot to watch the moon rise later.
Eileen sauntered about the house, and at last encountered the mistress of the place, in a small sitting-room.
With her own tact and charm of manner, Eileen drew her into conversation.
Mrs. Ballou loved to talk, and soon Eileen deftly introduced the subject of the murder. But, then, the older woman became silent, or answered only in monosyllables.
Adroitly, Eileen put forth hints and opened questions, but she learned nothing.
“She’s been forbidden to talk,” concluded Eileen, thinking to herself,—“I must go at it more directly.”
“I feel in a confidential mood,” she said, with a winning smile at the shrewd-eyed woman; “you can keep a secret, I know. Would you be surprised to know I am going to marry that gentleman who brought me here?”
“No!” and Mrs. Ballou’s voice rang out sharply; “oh, no, not that!”
“Why not?” and Eileen’s eyes were big and questioning. “He’s a fine man.”
“Yes, yes;” and the other spoke hurriedly, “but, miss, oh, I mayn’t say anything, but, miss, I beg you, don’t!”
Seizing the chance, Eileen leaned forward and whispered suddenly, “Is he the man who came here last summer with Miss Moulton?”
“Oh!” and Mrs. Ballou gave a slight scream; then, immediately recovering herself, she said, “Oh, mercy, no! How could you ask such a thing as that? Of course not!”
“Why were you so alarmed at the question?” and Eileen eyed her closely.
“I wasn’t; but any reference to that murder always gives me a shock. No, miss, he never brought Miss Moulton here, she—she came with—with another man.”
“Are you sure?” and Eileen stared, meaningly.
“Yes, yes, of course—of course I’m sure.”
“Oh, very well, I’ve no doubt you are. Now, why is it you advise me not to marry Mr. Farrish?”
“Oh, because,—because, he—he seems older than you are.”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 19